


Beware of Sharp Memories

by WhereDestiniesMeet17 (orphan_account)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Humor, BAMF Stiles, Captivity, Child Death, F/F, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Kidnapping, M/M, Monster of the Week, Reincarnation, Repressed Memories, Romance, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Second in Command Stiles, Soul Groups, True Alpha Scott McCall, enchanted objects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:29:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2610212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/WhereDestiniesMeet17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She smooths his hair back, nodding. "Not everyone remembers the things we do," she repeats.</p><p>-</p><p>Stiles is born able to remember all his past lives. After Claudia dies, he tries to forget all about his abilities. This makes things worse and better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beware of Sharp Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Reader discretion is advised. This fic contains all sorts of shit. It has offscreen child death, violence, repressed memories, somewhat soul mates, kidnapping, captivity, Stiles gets lost in his head for a while, and a creepy ass zoo. I think that covers it.

He is six when his mother sits him down and turns his world inside out. The cookie goes tasteless in his mouth and his appetite spoils. His heart thuds like he just ran around the gym a dozen times. He stares at her and he feels like he just fell down, like he might not be able to get back up.

The other children call him weird, but he never believed them. Scott told him he was funny and called Stiles' his best friend. They were brothers a long time ago, but Scott doesn't remember. Even so, when Stiles calls him brother, Scott grins with a gapped tooth smile and nods.

But if his mother is telling him that what he knows is strange, then he has to be.

He drops his eyes and tries not to cry.

"Gemini," his mother murmurs. She sinks to her knees in front of him, taking his head between her hands. She smiles and he thinks of morning glorys as they open in the dawn. She smells of roses, and he leans into her hands, choking down a sob.

"It is not a bad thing that you do," she assures him. She smiles and he can breathe through the sticky thickness in his throat. "Few can. I only know of you and me."

He blinks and wipes his nose on his shirt sleeve. "You can?" He whispers.

She swipes the tears away, still giving him the soft smile. "You have always been my child. I remember every time I first laid eyes on you and felt my heart swell with warmth and love. My arms were made to hold you and my kisses were made for scraps and scratches. I remember." 

"I remember when your skin was like night," he demurs. "And the time your hair was blonde instead of brown. I remember living in a village by a cold sea and when there was only sand all around us. I remember lots of stuff, but Scott doesn't remember any of it."

She smooths his hair back, nodding. "Not everyone remember the things we do," she repeats.

"Then why do we?" He questions.

Her smiles shakes and almost disappears. She holds it together, but her eyes get shiny. "It's a gift. Everyone has a special gift, whether they know about it or not. Ours is to remember."

"What good is that? Why couldn't our gift be something cool? Something that didn't make the other kids call me names?" He drops his eyes again.

"Ours is really cool," she assures him. "We get to remember every moment, good and bad. We get to keep the lessons we learned before, get to treasure those we love while we've got them. You've been on so many adventures already, haven't you?"

He shrugs. "I guess."

"Don't guess," she teases. "Remember. Think about when we sailed across the ocean and got to meet all the Native Americans. They taught us all about haunting and gathering. Or the time we served in his Majesty's court in France. You were a strapping young man, if I recall."

Stiles blinks and then he is grinning. "I was a Musketeer! Just like in the movie."

She smiles, curling her arms around him. "That's right. See? Remembering is amazing. But it has a down side, Gemini." Her arms get tight around him. "We weren't meant to hold all this inside us. It disturbs the balance. It creates a undertow of memories. It will drag you down if you let it. We must remember to never lose ourselves in memories. We cannot live in the past. We must always push forward. Sometimes, that means keeping what we know to ourselves. Do you understand, Gemini?"

He thinks about it seriously. Finally, he nods. "I think so."

She grins. She releases her hold on him, and he jumps to his feet, light and giddy. She stands and looks down at him. "Go play outside while I go make dinner."

He runs out the door and doesn't look back. If he had, he would have seen his mother silencing an unheeded plea. She watches him for a long time, fingers pressed to trembling lips. She will have to make due with the time she has.

-

When he is eight, his world shatters. He watches them bury his mother with blank eyes and a yawning chasm opening in his chest. He tries to breathe, but he can't. He tries to lean into her reassuring touch, but there are only phantom hands in his hair. He tries not to cry, but his father's hands are calloused when he wipes away the tears. The memories rise up like a great tidal wave, threatening to wash over him. Every moment they didn't get to have this time, every laugh they didn't share, is right there.

He could dive into them. He could comfort himself with a thousand memories of the soul that has passed on to the next life. He yearns for the comfort with all his heart, yet his mother's warning is heavy in his ears.

He cannot risk losing himself. Without knowing, he does something worse.

He turns away and forgets.

-

He changes his name. He says, "call me Stiles." Eventually, they do.

-

When he is nine, he meets a girl named Lydia Martin. He stumbles, staring at her. He's convinced it must be true love, because he knows she belongs in his life. It's just like when he met Scott.

He declares his love for her the same day and ends up getting punched in the face by a boy named Jackson. He assumes that Jackson was always meant to be his arch enemy.

It's the only way to explain the feeling of Déjà vu.

-

He is thirteen when the migraines start.

It feels like a pressure inside his head, like a dam about to break. He curls up in a ball and cries, the pain having dragged him from sleep. He's confused and queasy, unable to move or call for his father. He presses the heel of his palms to his eyes and just tries to keep breathing.

His father finds him in the same position three hours later, exhausted and shaking. Stiles can only now open his eyes, which are swollen and red. His kneels next to him and pulls his hands away, replacing them with his own.

He murmurs soothingly as he softly kneads, his touch barely there. He helps keep his head steady, keeps the pain from flaring. Stiles relaxes, letting his body uncurl from the ridged position. He is stiff and achy, every move threatening to undo his father's work. 

Finally, he stretches out and sinks into the mattress.

"We'll go see the doctor tomorrow," his father says. "And we'll get you a prescription for migraines."

"Okay," Stiles rasps without moving.

At that moment, he doesn't care. He just never wants to feel this way again.

-

The medicine doesn't help.

-

He is fifteen when the dreams come.

He never tells anyone about them. Mostly because there is only so many times someone would want to hear something like, "I dreamed you were a Russian spy during WWII and that you got stabbed by a Roman gladiator because you slept with his daughter during the French Revolution."

He doesn't need to add another reason for people to avoid him.

-

It takes him a while to realize that his dreams always star the same people. He has noticed that Scott and his dad are always there, but that isn't all that new. Then Melissa starts to show up, along with Lydia, Jackson, and Danny. 

Then, the other people. He doesn't recognize them, but they are always there. Their faces change, the time period shifts, but he knows who they are. He thinks, as he watches civil war soldiers dance with viking maidens, _I know them._

He wakes up thinking, _I just haven't met them yet._

-

He is sixteen when he dreams of his father dressed in a Sheriff's uniform beating the shit out of a English nobleman. The nobleman grins up at him, mouth bloody. He pulls himself to his feet, swaying, but too proud to stay down.

His father speaks with a western drawl. "Stay away from my son."

"Shouldn't you tell him to stay away from me?" He responds.

Stiles wakes up shivering and aroused.

-

The next night, there is a body in the woods. The shifting faces settle, one by one. Nothing really changes, but something restless and pained finally eases inside his chest.

-

Stiles is eighteen and is two seconds away from strangling a pack werewolves. 

He presses his head into his hands, willing the migraine away. He has been staring at the books for six hours. He still hasn't found a single clue on what is stealing children and leaving behind charcoal. He knows it's here, he knows he must have read about it, because it's so fucking familiar.

He wants to scream and to break something, but he's more likely to break himself first.

He hasn't had a migraine in months, not since the pack solidified. He has been working on the theory that the bond had been helping his health. It's quite obvious, as his head threatens to blow off, that he was wrong.

"Stiles, you okay?" Kira asks.

Stiles swallows dryly. He tries to speak, but it comes out a raspy groan. The others stop to look at him.

Scott is beside him a second later, pressing his hand against his shoulder. Stiles feels like someone is spinning cotton candy in his head. He leans into Scott's hand, his whole body going slack with relief. He drops his hands and looks up into Scott's blurry face. Black lines spread across Scott's hands and up his arms as he draws the pain out.

"Fuck, Stiles, why didn't you tell me?" Scott asks.

"It's nothing," he mutters. "I can keep working."

"Have you been taking the medication?" He huffs in frustration when Stiles doesn't answer. "You haven't, have you?"

"No," Stiles admits in a whisper. It doesn't hurt while Scott takes the pain, but the thought of being loud makes him flinch. He's halfway to sliding out of the chair and turning into a puddle when he finishes his thought. "I haven't had a migraine in a while."

"What do you call this?" Scott sweeps his hand up and down, gesturing at the pain sick look and the defensive curl that Stiles is displaying.

"I believe that is my body, but I could have this anatomy thing all wrong."

Scott shifts and for a split second Stiles thinks he's going to let the pain spill back over him. Stiles clamps down on his wrist to keep him from moving. Scott just raises an eyebrow, as if to say that his point is proven. Stiles gives him a sheepish look and lets go.

"Okay, fine, I didn't see the point in taking a pill the doesn't work."

Scott kneels next to him. He switches hands, shaking out his right as the pain fades from it. He checks Stiles' eyes and find them dilated. He sends a look to Erica, who gets up to dim the lights in the far corner of the loft, where the couch is.

"When did they stop working?" Scott asks, pulling Stiles gently of out his seat.

Stiles goes, letting Scott lead him away from the books that need to be read, away from the pain throbbing inside his head. Scott eases him down on the couch, making him lay on his side. Stiles feels childish and weak, but he's so tired. He closes his eyes as Scott sits on the floor, back against the couch. They're holding hands, like they had the first day they met.

"Never did." Stiles murmurs. He shouldn't have said that, he thinks hazily.

Stiles feels like he's no longer seconds from blowing apart. His heartbeat is no longer the tick of a count down clock. His head is fuzzy with the static hum of werewolf magic. He feels like the last channel on antenna television. It's the channel that bounces and screams, the one that makes you feel like you are seeing something inside nothingness. It's the sand just before sleep and the sound of waves on the beach.

"Stiles?" Scott says and Stiles stirs for a moment.

"Wilk," Stiles answers, opening one eye. "What?"

"I need to let go. Will you be okay?"

"I think I'll survive," Stiles says. He must smell desperate. He blinks a few times and lets his grip go lax. Scott eases away, the pain tumbling back in with small bursts.

Stiles reels but he reminds himself that the couch is steady, the room is not spinning. He is alive and breathing. He's as cool as a cucumber and is not about to puke. He's always been good at lying to himself, but even that doesn't feel real.

"You good?" Scott asks. His face is white.

"Oh yeah," Stiles doesn't so much as wave him away, but twitches. "Never better."

"Here," Lydia says, dipping low over him. "It's the best I could find."

The pills press against his mouth. His eyes water and Lydia's visage wavers and distorts. She reminds him of someone else. He blinks and stares, the pills starting to go mushy in his mouth. He swallows, but the chalky taste remains.

"You're an angel," he jokes. "My matron, my goddess."

Lydia cocks her head to the side. "Thank you," she says. "But instead of chattering, you should be sleeping."

"But the books," he says.

"We can handle it for now. If we find it, we'll let you know."

"Okay," Stiles subsides. He leans back and covers his eyes, keeping his head turned as far as possible. It eases the building pressure inside his head.

Lydia goes back to her books. They all start to read again, the rustle of pages and the closing of books resuming. One shifts and their chair groans. Stiles is acutely aware of each person, of their movements and whispers. He can't hear the words, but Derek is questioning Scott. Allison and Isaac hold hands, Erica puts her feet in Boyd's lap. Cora reads, leaning heavily against Jackson, who eases closer to Danny. Malia glares at her book as Kira reads another. Peter sits on the stairs, scrolling through his laptop.

It makes Stiles feel useless. He tries to push away the feeling, push away the fact that everyone else is doing something productive. He sinks into himself, letting the world fade away. The warmth of the couch is comforting, the smell wrapping around him. It's a mix of junk food and blood. It makes him think of pack.

He wonders when those smells started connecting to the thought of home. He is human, pack isn't suppose to reflect that for him. It's meant to give him belonging and protection. None of them had signed on expecting affection and family. Promises be damned, you couldn't wrap up love and give it away as a present.

Stiles stills. He fights to get back the tossed away thought, to find the word that triggered an idea in his head. He rewinds and replays, lets it echo as much as it needs to. The word sparks inside his brain like the Fourth of July.

"It's a fucking present," Stiles blurts, sitting up.

The movement jolts his head and he let's out a whimper that could put any one of the wolves to shame. He fights through it and continues. The more he speaks, the easier it becomes.

"The charcoal is a present- or it's in lue of one."

"Like Santa?" Kira bemuses.

"No, his evil twin, what's-his-fucking-name."

"Krampus," Peter fills in for him. "You're talking about Krampus."

Stiles turns to look at him, swaying in his seat. Peter is typing on his computer, pulling up something. He probably has an entry on the goat like fucker in the bestiary.

"Yeah, that dude. Steals naughty children and shit. I think he eats them." Stiles leans back and thinks hard. It's all coming back, though he can't remember for the life of him where he read it.

"It attacked a small down in Mississippi about sixty years ago. Over forty kids taken, including-" Stiles breaks off.

_Reba Lauren, eight, blond hair and green eyes, talks with a lisp. She is the daughter of the city jailer and a home maker. She lives in a green house on the edge of town. It has a creepy cellar, a big back yard, and a broken fence. There are pretty trees, rocks, broken glass. It comes down, down into the warm house and takes what doesn't belong to it._

_She screams and Daddy comes running, feet thundering down the steps. Daddy, who knows so much more than he should, doesn't know about this. He doesn't know how to stop it. They fight, fists and horns, a raging creature and a crying girl. Daddy bleeds and begs as she's swept up into the bag. Up they go and the only proof is a chunk of charcoal._

He closes his mouth. His heart races along and fear pours off of him. No, no, no. He struggles and frees himself, the intense thoughts backing away. They are nothing more than a vividly remembered story from a web page or book.

"Figure out how to kill and do it soon. It's only going to get worse from here," Stiles advises.

Peter fills the silence, the space between Stiles' words, and the questions the pack wants to ask. Peter reads out the information and they decide they are going to kill it tonight.

-

The headache is gone, but the pack refuses to let him follow. The lingering weakness keeps him on the couch, waiting. Peter remains with him, watching him from his perch. After a while, Stiles gets up and starts to pace.

"Quit watching me," he grumbles.

"Find something else to interest me." Peter replies.

Stiles snaps, "You could have gone with them."

"Who would be around to protect you?"

Stiles snorts. "That's like leaving the wolf to guard the sheep."

Stiles paces away from him. When he reaches the wall, he pivots and comes face to face with Peter. He backs up a step, letting the wall steady him when his shoulders knock against it.

"You're invading my personal space," Stiles informs him, less commanding and more squeaky.

Peter steps closer. "We both know you're not a sheep, Stiles. Sheep don't survive this long when they decide to play nurse maid to a bunch of monsters. You are something else entirely and I," Peter plants his hands on either side of the wall. "Would like to know what."

Stiles tries to sink through the wall. "Well, I'm pretty freaked out right now, if that does anything for you."

"Not particularly. Though I do like your mouth."

Stiles colors and ducks out from under his arm. He throws up his hands as if to ward away Peter's words. He turns to face Stiles. Peter leans up against the wall, soaking in the left over body heat like a giant lizard. Like Jackson. His lips curl in amusement.

"That was the creepiest come on ever." Stiles tells him, putting space between them while still being in the same room.

"You wound me with your criticisms." Peter intones. He looks like he's fighting laughter.

Stiles folds his arms and drops down on the couch. "I'll wound you with a rolled up newspaper next time."

"Oh joy, back to the dog jokes."

"The help me get through the day."

Peter rolls his eyes and looks at the door. "Apparently they survived."

-

The pack falls in, no worse for wear, and riding a bad-guy-butt-kicking high. Stiles gets the story in pieces. They found its lair, saved the kids, and beheaded the fucker. They submerged him in sea water and iron, then made sure to toast him, just in case. Stiles nods his approval.

Krampus is dead, but it doesn't feel like enough.

-

The pack gets the holidays off. It's like all the nasties got together and decided to take a break until the New Year. It sets Stiles on edge, makes him wait for the other shoe to drop. Maybe taking over Beacon Hills is their New Year's resolution. Stiles hopes not.

-

It's the fifth day of January when Stiles finds it. It's on display at the Beacon Hills Museum, a building dedicated to the thousands of people who have died strange deaths while residing there. Stiles wanders away from the group of teenagers gawking at the newest exhibit. The suit of armor is impressive, but Stiles is instead drawn to a display case. 

Inside the display is a sword, origin unknown. Theories are written on the plaque, but they don't interest him in the way they should. Stiles stares at the blade, which would have been long and deadly in its day. It's rusted and chipped, but once it was a board sword, yet thin and light. It had grace where others like it only had brute force. Stiles wants to touch, but the glass gets in the way. He rests his palm against the cool glass and peers closer.

He jerks back when his breath fogs the glass. Magic sword is bad, bad news. He is not going to become a character in the first three minutes of a Supernatural episode. He is going to march his ass back over to the group, tell Scott that Deaton needs to visit the museum, and pretend his hands aren't tingling with want.

He doesn't get the chance.

"Isaac!" Scott shouts and then there is the clattering of metal hitting the ground.

People gasp and shout and scatter. Stiles whirls, watching Aiden pick himself up from the floor. Stiles notes that his hands tremble, but he doesn't shift. Isaac stands in front of him, chest heaving with anger. They glare each other down, the knight's armor littering the floor. They both prepare to attack.

"Stop!" Scott barks out the order, his voice booming. There is an alpha command behind it, which makes them both freeze.

Stiles hurries over. They should probably leave before-

The curator bursts into the room and stops. She stares in horror at the priceless suit of armor, reduced to a pile of metal on the floor. Rage shadows her face. Her voice, when she speaks, makes everyone cringe. Even if she didn't say the words, it's perfectly clear. The senior class shuffles out the door as Coach Finstock, the unlucky bastard in charge of chaperoning, tries to talk her down.

She screams in his face for his effort and bans him as well.

On the bus, he glares at them. "Thank you," he says to the group as a whole. "Now we have another place where our school is unwelcomed."

"I think we can still go in Applebee's, Coach," Stiles offers up. "It's on the way back to school if you want to stop and get thrown out of there too."

"Shut up, Stilinski." Coach says, but he tells the driver to stop for lunch.

Stiles forgets about the sword.

-

His father wakes him up early the next morning. Stiles rubs his eyes and blinks hard. There is sleet hitting his window. It makes a wet, scratchy sound. He feels cold and awful.

"Dad?"

"Fran Bennett, the curator of Beacon Hills Museum, is dead."

"What?" Stiles demands, sitting up in bed. He may or may not be wearing batman pajamas.

"I just got the call. She was found inside the museum, dismembered. Parrish said it looks like she walked in on a robbery, but the amount of damage..."

Stiles' mouth goes dry. Apparently he got sucked into the first three minutes after all.

"What's missing?"

"The suit of armor."

Stiles drops back on the bed with a moan. "Fuck."

-

The pack, including John and Chris, spend six hours looking for the armor. Stiles researches it, but all he finds it an anonymous donor. Danny tries to hack it, but even the museum doesn't have a name. Derek and Cora try to track it by scent, but the trail ends at the door. Stiles doesn't know why someone would steal a hunk of metal, but it has to be important. It's nuts. 

Peter finds it all so rather amusing. He sits by Stiles on the couch, reading through articles on missing antiques. He makes snarky comments whenever he gets the chance and Stiles responds in kind. It helps pass the time and keeps them from dozing off.

Unfortunately, it turns out to be a total waste. At six o'clock on the dot, Peter's head whips up. He gets to his feet in a hurry, tugging Stiles up by the arm. The books fall to the floor in a heap of weak spines and loose pages. Stiles is about to lodge an angry protest when the loft door is ripped open.

It's a rush of back peddling and shouts. Blood is gushing from Malia's chest, her head hanging limply. Kira drags her in, sprinting even with the extra weight. She has reassurances pouring out of her mouth, keeps calling Malia Wile E. Coyote. Malia doesn't open her eyes.

Peter goes to them, picking Malia up. Kira keeps one hand on her as they carry Malia into kitchen. Stiles goes to Scott, who is bloody up to his elbows. He grabs Scott, getting him to look him in the eye. Scott's shock slips away with a hard shake. 

"What happened?" Stiles demands. "Where are the others?"

"They're on their way. We were checking out a warehouse on the outskirts of town when it showed up."

"The guy who stole the suit?"

"The suit. It was like an episode of Scooby-Doo. It came out of nowhere and just started swinging. We knocked the helmet off and there was nothing there, nothing to fight. It was the best we could do to get Malia out of there."

"Why did it come after you?"

Scott shakes his head, a bit like a wet dog would. He looks at the doorway to the kitchen. He seems to be pulled towards it, falling into the gravity that pack has over each other. Stiles snaps his fingers, getting Scott to focus on him again.

"Peter and Kira can handle Malia. We need to figure out the why, the what, and the how to fucking kill it."

"I- You're right." Scott takes a few deep breaths, steadying himself.

"We established that a long time ago."

Scott manages a half smile. "I think it's because we knocked it over. Like, we woke it up and it got pissed off."

"Okay, the what and why. I say we go with an old faithful and set it on fire. Go get the rock salt, they keep it in the bathroom."

Scott heads for the stairs at a quick trot. Stiles hears people on the stairs, stomping feet and familiar voices. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He feels like a cat staring down a hungry dog as he turns to look out the large windows.

At first, there is only the thick strip of orange from the setting sun. Then, piece by piece, the knight drops on the balcony. There is nothing connecting the pieces, nothing to move them as a body would. Regardless, they swing and shift, gliding effortlessly forward. Its sword raises and falls; the window shatters.

-

Scott charges back down the stairs with a snarl and crimson eyes. Stiles shouts at him not to, jumping forward to grab at Scott. He misses by an inch, fingers grazing Scott's sleeve. Scott's feet leave the ground as he roars, the wolf taking over more.

Scott hits the knight and drives him down. The metal clangs and rings, Scott's claws shredding the breast. The steel dulls with ever strike, its metal fingers spasming around the hilt of a sword. The knight shifts and Scott goes flying into a wall. His head cracks against the bricks. Scott slides down into a slump, leaving behind a trail of blood. He struggles to get up, and fails.

The knight climbs to its feet, leaning forward, feet planted on the ground. It is about to charge, is about to plunge the broad sword into Scott's chest. Scott won't be able to heal. Scott will die. His brother will die.

Stiles doesn't think. A tingle sweeps from head to toe, from shoulder to finger tips. His shoes slip against the floor. Scott's eyes widen in panic. Someone shouts his name. Stiles steps directly into the knight's path.

Stiles' hands fly up, one hand facing outwards in the universal sign for stop, the other hand forming a lose fist. The knight's sword comes down in an arch. Stiles blinks, fighting not to close his eyes. He will face eminent death as he always has. Panicking and terrified, but stubborn. Time slows and there is a explosion of colors behind Stiles' eyes like a rainbow crashing into a bowl of Fruity Pebbles.

The tang of one blade meeting another reverberates across the room. The shock ripples up Stiles arms, making his teeth chattering as he reels back. Stiles regains his footing, eyes dropping to the revitalized sword in his hand.

She is whole and gleaming. She is singing with battle. Her strength becomes his, her courage and experience cloaking him. She sighs in joy and speaks to his soul.

_'I follow you always, old friend.'_

She preaches bravo and Stiles is all for it. It's false as wooden teeth, but it keeps his knees from knocking. 

"How about you fight someone who can fight back, you son of a bitch." Stiles spits. 

The response, when it comes, is whispered in a silky voice. "I accept your challenge, Keeper."

Stiles nearly drops the sword in surprise.

_Her name is Dianna, Daughter of Anna and Joel. Short in stature, brunette, with blue eyes. She wears leather hides and talks gruffly. The men wrongly say women can't fight, but humans aren't her opponents anyway._

_Dianna is strong and tough, but she cries when her friend tells her goodbye._

_The woman speaks crystal clear and regal beyond compare. She calls Dianna Keeper. Her name is beyond Dianna's native tongue. She is going home, back to Otherworld. The sword is a parting gift._

_"So you may fondly remember me and my court," she explains._

_She steps into a ring of mushrooms, where light shimmers and dances. She gives Dianna a flutter of fingers and bells chime. A breeze blows and she is gone._

_Dianna says, "I will meet you in another life," in an unheard parting wish._

_She picks up the sword and-_

The knight's broad sword swings forward with a whoosh. Stiles ducks, saving his head. He sidesteps the downward cut, and jumps back when the stroke comes up towards him. The knight is quick and smooth in his movements. Stiles can't say that for himself. He is a jackrabbit narrowly escaping the wolf's teeth.

The world narrows down to dancing feet and glinting steel. An insistent voice says he's about to die. It's that fear that keeps him moving. It drowns out the shouts of his pack, his friends, his father. That niggling voice highlights the sweat dripping down his face, the burn in his lungs, and the tightening of his muscles. It feels like an hourglass has been flipped and every step brings him a second closer to the last trickling grains. Stiles is hurtling toward the moment the sword sinks in and slices him open.

He can't duck the next swing and doesn't have the agility to dodge. He blocks, the knight's sword hitting his and sliding off. He steps back, lungs rattling. He's still too close and the sword knicks his arm, drawing a pained gasp from his lips. The blood swells from the cut and breaks, sliding down his arm to his wrist. He's out of time.

The knight sees weakness and strikes. Stiles tries to block a second time, but his arm gives and he goes sprawling. His sword flies out of his hand. The knight steps forward, ready for the killing blow. Stiles' mind goes blank and for a moment, all he can think is, what time does this make?

Then a body hits his and they roll. Rock salt showers over the knight and the loft floor. The heady smell of gasoline fills the air, a match strikes, and then the whole room lights up in bonfire crimson. The knight howls as it is set to rest.

That's the easy part. The hard part comes when they have to put out the fire.

-

"What the fuck just happened?" Allison voices.

Stiles looks up from where Scott is bandaging his arm. The cut is long and shallow but stings like a bitch. Malia is tucked into bed, unconscious but healing. Peter, who had gotten Stiles out of the way so the others could salt and burn the knight, is eyeing him. Stiles shakes himself out of a daze. He doesn't know how to give an answer he doesn't have. How can he, when he doesn't understand either?

"We all survived and defeated a new menace?" Stiles tries.

"Not that, the sword thing. You pulled it out of thin air," Erica waves off his deflection.

"Oh." Stiles drops his eyes, thinking. "I forgot to tell you guys that I found a magical sword. It bonded to me. We're besties now."

He should have stopped at 'sword'. The incredulous look on their flushed faces isn't conductive to Stiles getting out of the loft in one piece. His father is pale in the face, running his hands through his hair. He's gearing up for a lecture.

"Why didn't you mention this before?" Chris is weighing the sword in his hands. He admires the craftsmanship with a hunter's eye. Stiles wonders if he sees something Stiles doesn't.

"We had bigger problems at the time." He shrugs.

He forgot about it, is the actual reason. Now that it's in the same room, he can't ignore it at all. She hums with energy and she keeps asking what's wrong. He can't tell if she is actually speaking. He doesn't know if it was her memory that came over him or a vivid hallucination. He just doesn't know.

John finally explodes. "What were you thinking?"

Stiles winces and looks down. "About the nice weather we're having?" He tries, but the joke falls flat. "I couldn't let it hurt Scott."

"Stiles, I heal. You don't." Scott snaps, violently tapping the gauze.

"Not from a sword in the chest," Stiles returns, stubborn as always.

"I survived one in the stomach."

Stiles recoils. Scott looks instantly sorry. He reaches out, but Stiles knocks his hands away, getting unsteadily to his feet.

"That was low, Scott." Stiles hisses.

"Stiles-"

"That may explain it, though." Lydia cuts in. "You say you remember your time as the nogitsune. Maybe you picked up tricks that it knew."

"You know how we all pretend that didn't happen? Let's start doing that again," Stiles bluntly suggests. Even the eggshell treading was better than what Lydia was suggesting. The monster had left a mark, but everything he says and does is purely Stiles now. The sword had helped him along, but his actions were still his own.

When he doesn't get an answer, he claps his hands. "Good. Now, I'm going home, where I will sleep for ten hours because my head hurts and I just fought the fucking Black Knight's silver cousin."

Stiles heads for the door, patting his pockets for his keys. He stops at the door, looking over his shoulder. He misses the worried gazes of his friends, the resigned look on his father's face. His eyes go straight to the sword.

The same thing that had drawn him to it at the museum, that had called her to him when he needed her, is ordering him to take her from Chris. The bigger, louder part of him, tells him to get as far away from it as possible. That part is the one that's kept him alive, so he listens.

-

Peter is sitting on his front porch when he arrives home. Stiles doesn't see him until he's less than a foot away. Stiles shouts, throwing his keys straight at him. Peter catches them, and hands them back.

"What did you do, run here?" Stiles demands with a thudding heart. He climbs up the three steps and unlocks the door. Peter follows him inside, not waiting for an invitation. These are the days Stiles wishes he hung out with vampires. At least then he could kick them out.

He turns on the porch light before going upstairs. He has a feeling his father won't be home until late. He isn't sure where his father goes when Stiles does something stupid, but it isn't home.

"What do you want, Peter?" Stiles asks, kicking off his shoes and sitting on the bed.

"What is a Keeper, Stiles?"

"Someone you don't divorce?" Stiles throws himself back, staring at his ceiling.

He knows the answer, or he thinks he does. It's on the tip of his tongue, so close to tumbling off, but it can't. Something is holding it back. Every time he tries to pry it loose, he blanches and backs away.

He sick of it, to be honest. He's sick all the headaches and the constant sense that he's forgotten something. He hates it, but he doesn't know how to fix it. He doesn't know if there is anything to fix.

The bed sinks when Peter sits down next to him. Stiles looks up at him, waiting. He can't muster up the energy to give a fuck. It's been a while since Peter has killed anyone. He probably won't fall off the wagon just because Stiles can't answer a question.

Peter leans over him, into his space. He stares down at him with speculating eyes. Stiles closes his eyes to get away from the look. He needs to ignore how close Peter is. It's making his stomach do jumping jacks and warmth pool down below.

"What?"

"I should have turned you when I had the chance."

"Dude," Stiles sighs. "Why would you even want to? I'd make a terrible wolf. I would be fucking Moon Moon. People would say 'who the fuck brought Stiles Stilinski?' as I chase a squirrel up a tree."

"But you'd be mine," Peter ghosts his fingers over Stiles face.

Stiles' eyes shoot open. "Excuse me?"

Peter leans back, keeping his hands to himself. Stiles face tingles from the touch, warm and wanting more. Fuck, he knew Peter was hot, but when did he start actively lusting? Bad libido.

Peter watches him with too blue eyes. Stiles shifts and swallows. He sits up, putting his back against the wall. He clears his throat so he doesn't sound like a horny teenager.

"Are you still trying to seduce me to the dark side? That's so Junior year."

"I'm just trying to seduce you now." Peter sniffs once and smiles. "I'd say it's working.

Stiles forces a laugh. "You should do stand up. You could call your act Murder, Mayhem, and Mistimed Jokes."

"Coming from the master of deflection and teenage sass, I'm sure I'd be able to sell it."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Well, not that this witty banter isn't fun, but could you leave?"

"Of course. I got what I came for." Peter stands, heading for the door. Stiles has to applaud the fact that he's the only werewolf that uses it.

"What would that be?" Stiles asks.

Peter smiles, but doesn't respond. He walks out the door. The door shuts down stairs a minute later and Stiles is left alone. He flops back, running his hands over his face. He'll figure out Peter's motives tomorrow.

He misses the fact that the sword is leaning against his desk. He'll stuff it in his closet the next morning and lie if anyone asks. 

-

That night Stiles dreams of a farm house and fields of corn. There is a woman with blue eyes and red lipstick. She wears a gown slit to her thigh and dipping to her cleavage. She steals his home, his money, and his heart.

After everything is said and done, she smiles sadly and says, "you could have been mine."

-

The next four months happen in a blur. There a witches, yetis, and something that oozes slim. There are tests, parties, preparations. Graduation is coming up and Stiles has absolutely no idea what the fuck he's going to do with his life. His old plans- the ones including Lydia and a normal life- aren't in the cards anymore. Now, his life revolves around the pack, the supernatural, and figuring out what Peter stands to gain by flirting with him every time they're in the same room.

He just has to keep his shit together until his diploma is in his hand. Then he can have two months to figure out all the other stuff.

Like so many of his plans, it's foiled by a pompous asshole.

-

The woman wears a pink dress and has the looks of an upstanding citizen. Her hair is pulled back to show her face, round and soft. Her eyes are blue and her lips pouty. She has a farm girl look to her and a Georgia drawl. She also has a gun pointed at Stiles' face.

"Call them," she orders, sweet as sugar. If you weren't looking right at her, she'd seem wholesome. Her eyes destroy the illusion. They scream batshit insane. They remind him of Kate.

"We're really not close enough to exchange phone numbers."

Stiles keeps his hands up, the red sleeves of his gown pooling at his elbows. They are standing in the school parking lot. He's running late for his graduation ceremony, the one he is suppose to be giving a speech at as salutatorian. The school anthem starts to play as his classmates march onto the football field. At least if she shoots him, he won't die of boredom.

"Sweetheart, I'm on a schedule. The new exhibit opens in a few days and I need the alpha. If you don't call them, then you will be screaming for them."

"Lady, you are not that scary." Stiles lies. "I've seen leftovers that were more intimidating."

She chuckles. "Aren't you a sassy one?"

"It's in my job description."

She keeps smiling. She tilts her head slightly to the right. Stiles has a bad feeling about it. She blinks once with her painted eyelids. Then she blinks with a whole different set. Her pupils and iris are less round and more oval, like a cat or a reptiles'. She keeps looking at him with her freaky, inhuman eyes.

Stiles has launch into full on 'I am so fucked, this is not good, nonhuman enemy' mode. He swallows down a scream. It was one thing when he thought she was a hunter. She was bound by the code not to harm him. (Though the code rarely stops them.) Now, she's a creature with a gun. Pointed at him. Stiles. Fuck.

"That's not the only thing, is it?" She hums, looking him up and down.

Cow to slaughter, he thinks. She's seeing how much of him she can eat before she bloodies up her pretty dress. Or thinking iff she can fit him in the trunk of her Volkswagen Beetle. Which she can. Stiles has been stuffed into smaller trunks.

"I know how to tell you to go fuck yourself in six languages." Stiles adds, hoping to stop her assessing gaze.

She meets his eyes again. Her teeth are white and straight when she smiles. They are not sharp, but they scare him.

"I've never found a Keeper before. Mr. Adam will be pleased."

"If you think I'm getting in that fucking car, you're crazier than people drinking wolfsbane juice," Stiles swears, backing away. Adrenaline is racing through his system. He might even be able to get to the school doors, if she doesn't shoot him first.

"Honey, you should know better by now. You don't have a choice."

The scuffle ends with Stiles bleeding from his temple and dazed. Distantly, he hears Lydia as she begins her Valedictorian speech. Then, the trunk shuts and it's like cutting off an old TV.

-

Adam is a bald man with a collection of exotic creatures. He belly laughs when Miss Pretty in Pink Psycho Bitch tells him. Stiles is on his knees, too weak to get up. His arms and legs are laden and heavy. The whole time he's there, he keeps picturing himself in a Princess Leia slave outfit. He's so out of it, they could dress him in it and he wouldn't even notice.

"Put him next to the chupacabra, Marcy. Have him prepared to tell stories. That will delight our guests to no end."

Marcy curtsies like Adam is fucking royalty. She hooks a hand under Stiles' arm and pulls him up like he's a ragdoll. He stumbles along, putting up as much fight as a new born kitten.

She doesn't throw him into the cage when they reach it. She eases him down, finally remembering that he's breakable and human. She pats his head once.

"You'll be happy here, Keeper." She promises.

"Yeah, I always wanted a cage of my own." Stiles mumbles, swaying to the side. He lays down, unable to remain up right. He passes out before he can hear Marcy's reply.

-

The cage is more like a prison cell, except fancier and illegal. It smells like a hospital and is just as cold. He shivers and wraps the gown tighter around him. Stiles peers through the glass door of his cage. They wanted an unobstructed view.

People come and go, all demanding the same thing. He tells them no, over and over. Some get mad and curse. Others look at him with disdain. He wouldn't give them what they wanted, even if he knew what it was. The creatures around him are quiet. They warn him with their silence. 

Marcy visits him when there is a pause between people. He thinks he's been in the cell for a day, but it feels like a year. There is nothing to do but tell the "guests" to fuck off.

She brings him a glass of water and a bowl of soup. He turns his nose up at both. He's playing a waiting game. He just has to hold out until his pack can find him.

"Cupcake," Marcy shakes her head. "If you won't entertain, you have no use. Useless exhibits get tossed."

She leaves him alone after that.

The next guest that arrives gets a story, but not the one they want. They get a recount of the time Stiles got locked in the elementary school bathroom. They leave half way through, so he chalks it up as a success.

-

There is a little girl, maybe six, standing just outside his cell. She has on a green dress with ballerina slippers. A yellow dandelion is in her braided hair. She taps the glass and waves.

Stiles thinks it's been two days. He can't be sure. His throat is raw from talking, his hands shaking. He's scared and it's fucking with his head. He had eaten the soup and drank the water.

"Little girl," he croaks, easing to his feet. He leans against the wall to keep from falling down.

She watches him with interest. Her fingers cease the beat. They spread against the glass, leaving tiny finger prints. He doesn't notice how still she is. She looks so innocent.

"Little girl," he says again, clearing his throat. "Could you open the door?"

She shakes her head mutely.

"Please," he pleads. He stumbles forward and props against the glass. He looks down at her.

She makes the 'come here' gesture. He bends down, the glass the only thing separating them. His knees tremble as he crouches. He goes all the way down, sitting on his butt. They are close to eye level.

"I want to go home. Will you help me go home?"

She nods once, but holds up her hand. She speaks and her voice is wispy. It is that of an old woman, one nearing death. Stiles freezes, unable to look away from her eyes.

"Tell me a story first."

"What are you?" He asks through numb lips.

She puts a finger to her lips. "Shush. No more questions, Keeper. No more lies or distractions. Tell me what only you can remember."

He opens his mouth and words pour out. He's confused, so very confused. He doesn't understand what's going on until it's too late to stop. He has blocked it out for so long that he's unprepared for the rush. He's water swirling down the drain, going back to where he started. The solid lines breaks and tumbles and one life blends with another.

His mother's words find him in the jumble of memories, right before he goes under. It's so sharp he can't believe he forgot, can't believe he repressed so much. Then, he's lost.

-

It's as if he's in one of his dreams. Cowboys fighting samurais, dancing in the Russian ballets. Roman generals who hunt for game in the forests of South America. He is a child, an adult, an elderly person. He is a man and a woman. A mother, a father, a widow, a hermit.

He runs with wolves, he fights in the trenches. He is a keeper of memories from lifetimes long past. He is the center of a soul group, one that has been broken a hundred times. They have been family, friends, enemies, and allies. They have been more things than he can say. They don't always remain together, but they are bound to each other. They are meant to cross paths, to coincide, to exist at the same place at the same time.

They are the people who bring him back.

-

"Stiles, snap out of it. Stiles, please."

He blinks at the boy who has been his brother so many times. He smiles, swaying. His hair is different, his eyes a different color, but he's the same. He's missed him.

"Cando chegou aquí?" He asks the boy.

"What?" The boy draws back, look up at a man.

The man takes his place, leaning close. The man takes his head in his hands. He knows the man. The man stole his horse, gave him shelter, has left him for dead, and has saved his life. He threads his fingers between the man's.

"Sono felice di vederti." He tells him.

"Your name is Gemini Przemyslaw Stilinski. You were born on April eighth, to a woman named Claudia Stilinski and a man named John."

He frowns. That's not his name. It's too long. People don't call him that. But-

"Mów dalej."

"Claudia died."

His brother chimes in, "and you asked to be called Stiles."

"At sixteen, your best friend became a werewolf. Then he became an alpha and you became his second. You have a pack who needs you, a family who loves you. Stiles, you have to remember this life too."

The whirlpool stills and he starts to wake. He pulls himself free of the memories, paddles to the shore. He looks back and can recall it all, but it doesn't become a tsunami that threatens to drown him. He walks back into his life.

Stiles' fingers tighten and he blinks. He focuses on the man- Peter, shit, that's Peter- in front of him. Peter is close, his breath fanning across Stiles' face. His hands are bloody. His eyes are feral, the beta blue burning brightly. It roots Stiles in the present, just like his words had done.

"Peter?" Stiles knows he isn't imagining the relief that crosses his face.

He also isn't imagining Peter's mouth on his, claiming him with a kiss. Stiles pushes into it, inhaling sharply. It goes from quick and chaste, to making his toes curl. His lips tingle and he feels warm for the first time in days.

He pants when they part, his eyes heavy and lips puffed up. Someone clears their throat, presumably his father. Stiles looks past Peter, at the crowded hallway outside his cell. God, he fucking hates this place. His dad and Scott are in the doorway. He sees Malia pass, helping a gnome toward the door. John looks between the two of them with a frown.

"Wow, this got awkward really fast." Stiles murmurs. "I can explain. I will explain. But can we go home first?"

-

He does explain. Well, he explains after a shower and a nap. He's sitting in borrowed bathrobe, munching on a bowl of cereal. The couch is soft and enveloping. Peter sits next to him, keeping a respectable distance. It's the first time since they found Stiles that Peter has been more than a foot away from him.

The pack takes turns telling Stiles all about how they found him. They are sprawled all over the place, beding laid down on the floor. It's going to be an epic sleepover, possibly for the next three days. The wolves are being clingy, but Stiles doesn't mind. He doesn't want to be alone for a while. He's still getting use to the whole remembering multiple incarnations thing. He's scared that he's going to slip again. He's out of practice with keeping his lives separate. He'll get back into the groove soon.

They tell him how they ditched the ceremony half way through when they realized he wasn't there. The blood in the parking lot had tipped them off, unsurprisingly. They had feared they wouldn't find him at all: then Amber showed up.

"Amber?"

"She's a vampire. She said you two had a deal, but she couldn't open the door. She didn't stick around long."

Stiles can guess how well that went. An ancient being in a child's body is some scary shit.

They go on to tell him how when they had found the zoo-

"That's what Amber called it. The proprietor advertised his collection as a zoo." Isaac fills in when everyone else shifts and refuses to speak.

-and had ripped it apart. Scott keeps looking at Peter, telling Stiles with his eyes that Peter had done most of the ripping. Stiles is fine with that.

"Adam and Marcy? Are they dead?" Stiles asks.

"Pink bitch and the owner?" Allison queries.

"Yeah, them."

"Yeah, they're dead."

"After?"

"We went looking for you. We freed everyone that we found. When we got to you..."

Stiles takes a deep breath. His mouth goes dry but he tells them everything. He tells them about Claudia and him, about past lives and soul groups. He tells them the two extremes, how he has to balance the past and the present. He even tells them a few things about who they use to be.

They believe him. It feels like the weight of a few hundred life times drops away. His family- in ways that not even the wolves can comprehend-have freed him. They do question one thing.

"You and Peter? Really?"

"Once or twice." Hundred. He leaves off that part. No need to freak them out any more than necessary.

"And this lifetime is no exception?"

"No," Peter tells them. He presses up against Stiles side. Stiles has spent enough time around the wolves to know he's being scent marked. Peter doesn't say 'mine' but it's clear in his body language.

Stiles grins down at his empty bowl and decides he's cool with it.

-

Stiles is nineteen and a half when he realizes he's in a relationship that has been off and on for over two thousand years. He huffs out an amused laugh, which gets louder when Peter glances at him.

"What?"

"Just remembered something funny," Stiles waves away.

"Care to share?"

"Maybe later," Stiles says and actually means it.

**Author's Note:**

> Cando chegou aquí? - When did you get here?
> 
> Sono felice di vederti.- I am happy to see you.
> 
> Mów dalej.- Keep talking. (This translation was fixed by NexVesper, which I greatly appreciate.) 
> 
> Wilk- Wolf


End file.
